


yr shivered bones

by mockyrfears



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 12:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockyrfears/pseuds/mockyrfears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where the Greyjoy Rebellion never failed, and Balon Greyjoy is King of the Iron Isles. Theon claims a saltwife of the Crag during his first raid. <i>“Is this what His Grace wants?” she whispers into his neck, teeth grazing his skin as clever fingers unlaced his breeches. “Is this what my King desires of his saltwife?”</i> </p><p>Originally written for the <a href="http://mockyrfears.livejournal.com/2421.html">GOT kink meme</a> but me being me, had to bring Robb in somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s his first raid, to tell the truth.  
Rodrik and Maron had lead them whilst Theon was still a babe in arms, but they were rotting in the Drowned God’s watery halls and Theon was so very _alive_.   
His blood was singing in time to the screams that filled the air as he stood with triumphant hands on hips, watching his men batter down the gates of the castle. Not much of a castle in truth, its doors and walls crumbling.  _It looks more a mausoleum than a stronghold,_  he mused, smirking as the door began to crack under the sheer force of his fleet.  _Still, they are sworn to the Lannisters,_ he thought,  _it will serve us well for when we finally strike Lannisport._  
Their lord was missing; a captive of the so-called Wolf King’s if memory served him correct, and thus, it was his wife that received Theon. She kept her chin held high, hatred burning in those ebony depths, and the grinding of her teeth reverberated through the empty hall. They dragged out the rest of her household, from the mewling babes to their heir. Raynald, Theon thinks he was called, who cursed and spat insults at the reavers until one of his men drove the butt of their spear into his gut.   
“Enough,” Theon commanded, as Raynald trashed and coughed on the floor. “We shall keep them as thralls,”   
Raynald rolled onto his side and pointed an accusing finger at his Greyjoy captor.  
“I’d rather  _die_  than serve you, you son of a  _who_ -“  
Dagmer obliged his request before he can finish spitting it out, wrenching him back by the hair and slitting his throat with his dagger. Theon shrugged and smirked at his captives.  
“Any further complaints?”  
Lady Westerling had blanched after witnessing her son and heir’s murder, but it was not her that drew Theon’s eye. Rather, it was the svelte girl at her side, clutching her Lady’s arm with a determined set to her jaw. Theon grinned upon catching sight of her. And here must be the eldest Westerling daughter.  
“You, however,” he proclaimed, with an elaborate flick of his wrist, “I’ll take  _you_ as my salt-wife,”   
The Greyjoy men hooted their affirmation, hammering their spears against the ground, swords against their shields. Theon’s grin only grew.  
That was, until she spoke.  
This nameless girl fixed him with a cool glare.  
“As it please His  _Grace_ ,”  
A shiver went down through Theon’s spine and suddenly his conquest felt like a bad taste in his mouth.

  
***

  
It was that emotionless stare that chilled him.  
If she looked upon him with hatred, with anger, with anything other than  _this_ , he may have been able to process this better. But it was the steely determination in her gaze that gave him unrest, caused him to trash beneath his furs the whole journey home. On more than one night, he found himself emptying his insides over the rail of his longship, in spite of the fact he’d spent the best part of his life upon a deck.  
It was ridiculous, really. He was the future Lord Reaver, and what were the Greyjoy words after all?  _We do not sow_. So it was not right – treacherous, even – to be haunted by memories of burning shores and cold, unfeeling glares of his captives.   
He saw her beneath the decks, sometimes. Treated like the thrall she now was, fetching and serving meat and mead for his men. Once he spied her in the kitchens, met that same chilling gaze – Captain Theon Greyjoy requested that all meals were brought to his rooms from then on.  
 _I should beat her bloody for her insolence,_ he thought _, it’s what my father, what my brothers would have done._  
He did no such thing.

  
***

  
“Is this what His Grace  _wants_?” she whispers into his neck, teeth grazing his skin as clever fingers unlaced his breeches. “Is this what my  _King_ desires of his salt wife?”  
He wrenches away from her, breathless. He meets her gaze.  
She looks triumphant as he orders her out of his room.  
It’s the look of conquest in her eyes he thinks of as spills his seed into his hand alone in his chambers that night.


	2. Chapter 2

His father and sister are away when the Wolf King’s ship arrives on Pyke’s shores.

He receives him in the halls of the Great Keep and Theon studies this man – no, not a man, a   _boy_ – who would be King.

The crown sits no easier on his head than it would on Theon’s, and there’s a wary look in his bright blue eyes – he’s heard enough horror stories of the fearsome Greyjoys of Pyke from his father before him, no doubt. Theon regards him from the Seastone Chair. In truth, he should take his rightful place in the seat to the right of the throne, but it felt only proper to meet another King as equals. _I’ll be King someday, too,_ Theon reminds himself, _I will._

He listens to Stark’s terms with a cocksure grin, drumming his fingers idly on the tentacle-wrought arm of the throne. This wolf boy carries himself as surely as any King might do, but there’s a terrible youth in the way he puffs up his chest desperately as he reads his proposal and it makes Theon wonder. He nearly hoots with laughter when Robb suggests the betrothal of Asha to his younger brother.

“The cripple,” Theon replies, with a barely concealed smirk. Robb Stark narrows his eyes, gloved hands balling themselves into fists.

“He’s the next in line to Winterfell, after me,” he hisses coldly, and Theon can see the sweetness in these terms – the younger Stark may lack the use of his legs, sure, but his elder is at war – and who could tell what might befall him on the field? _Winterfell in the hands of the Greyjoys,_ he thinks with a wry grin, _aye, those are terms so sweet that even Asha cannot argue_. Still, he’s not King of the Iron Isles just yet, and it’s not his decision to make.

“The halls of Pyke are yours until His Grace returns to hear your plea,”

Theon can no longer hide his smirk when he catches Stark’s lips twist into a grimace – whether at the usage of titles, or at the idea of spending longer than he would have liked upon Pyke, he isn’t sure.

 

***

 

They share meat and mead at dinner that night and Theon is surprised to find they’ve more to talk about with one another than he might have thought. The wolf pup blushes furiously when you mention wenches or other such pleasures, but he’s a keen mind for strategy and Theon is beginning to understand why he hasn’t lost any battles thus far. He’s mopping up a trencher filled with venison and ale when he catches Stark’s eyes lingering on something – or rather, some _one_ – across the hall. Theon follows his gaze, and swallows the sinking feel in his stomach when he finds where it rests. His saltwife. _Jeyne_. That was her name.

He takes a long gulp of wine and sneers at the wolf boy.

“Like what you see?” Auburn curls whip around and Stark’s lips part into a startled ‘oh’, his cheeks aflush – and there’s a stirring in Theon at that, but he shrugs it away. “She’s my saltwife. I could lend her to you during your stay...for a price,” His lips bare away from teeth in something that resembles more a snarl than a sneer. Robb’s face only burns brighter, and he turns his stubborn gaze to his meal. Theon only laughs harder, digging his elbow into the northern lad’s ribs.

“A Westerling from the Crag,” he teases him, “I stole her for my own when I took their keep.” He does not mention that he still has not bedded her, that he can barely abide being in the same room as her, because the accusing glare she shoots him with each and every time they cross paths – it haunts him, it chills him to the bone, leaves him screaming and gnashing his pillow as he pumps his fist and empties himself over his bedsheets in frustration. Theon does not include that part.

Robb turns his head slightly, fixes him with a frown.

“She’s a Lady. Of high birth. You should not keep her like... Like a servant,”

Theon snickers.

“She’s my saltwife. I’ll keep her as I like,”

Robb is silent for several moments before pushing away his meal and rising from his seat. He bunches up his cloth and throws it on the table, then storms away without a word. Theon watches him depart with an amused look.

He’s less entertained when he catches Jeyne’s eyes following him.

 

***

 

“Does he treat you well?”

Jeyne is stacking away plates, her sleeves bunched back around her elbows. She doesn’t look at him.

“His Grace is very kind,”

It’s a dull, rehearsed line, and leaves Robb thoroughly unsatisfied.

“But... Surely, you can’t be happy?”

She whirls on him then, dark eyes burning with wrath.

“And why do you care, Lord Stark? Are you planning on saving me?” Her lips twitch with amusement at the idea. “What of the ships you need to win your war? What of the union you’ll need from the Greyjoys? Why else would you travel this far?” She emits a chuckle but there’s no humour in it. “Are you planning to throw away this war on a lady turned kitchen wench?” Jeyne shakes her head then turns her back on him. “Go back to your quarters, Lord Stark. A kitchen is no place for kings,”

 

***

 

Theon watches the whole exchange from behind the door.

He’s no fucking idea why it leaves him feeling so aroused.


End file.
